“You are too good to me, Margaret.”
Margaret was deeply moved.
“Who could help being good to you, my dear,” she said, stroking Helène’s hair.
When night came and Helène laid her tired head on the soft pillow of her bed in the little hall-room, she breathed a prayer of deep gratitude. Mr. Morton was right. His country was God’s own country. Then into her heart crept a feeling of sweet gladness. Perhaps—she would meet him again—her knight, sans peur et sans reproche. And, smiling, she slept.
CHAPTER XXII
JOHN MORTON walked the windy deck of the ship as though he were tramping all the way to Europe. He counted the throbbings of the great engine and the turns of the screws, so anxious and impatient was he. The hours were like days and the days like weeks.
Two months had passed since he had placed Helène in Mr. Tyler’s care, and those two months had left their marks on him. They had changed him from an adventurous, happy young fellow into a sober, thoughtful man. But while his brow had become lined his heart still preserved its faith and hope. He had made up his mind that he would seek out Helène and marry her at once, if she would have him. During his enforced absence in America he experienced so overwhelming a desire that he could scarce restrain himself from throwing everything up to satisfy his heart’s cravings for a mere sight of her lovely face. In his thoughts she stood out, by day and by night, as a thing for reverence and worship.
Surely, by this time Don would have traced her; and he pictured to himself the very place he would meet her, how he would greet her, the lovely face as it would look in response to his pleadings.